


Avatyar

by ancient_moonshine



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Reconciliation, Remorse, Slight mention of child torture/death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:13:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24890632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ancient_moonshine/pseuds/ancient_moonshine
Summary: Maeglin and Ecthelion, after Mandos.
Relationships: Ecthelion of the Fountain/Maeglin, Ecthelion/Maeglin, onesided Idril Celebrindal/Maeglin | Lómion
Comments: 4
Kudos: 62





	Avatyar

“He’s back.” Glorfindel tells him without preamble, without warning., over a game of chess. Ecthelion’s hand twitches as he reaches for his next piece, hesitating a millisecond too long over the knight on his way to the rook. Glorfindel raises a golden eyebrow.

“Touch-move.” He says. Ecthelion does not deign him with a glare. He takes Glordindel’s rook and his friend smiles, satisfied, takes his queen.

“How did you find out?” Ecthelion asks. He carefully does not look at his friend. Glorfindel leans back, throws a swallow of tea into his mouth.

“Eärendil. A perk of seeing everything that’s going on in Aman, I expect, and let’s not forget his wife can wheedle news out of every bird on this isle.” Glorfindel watches his friend carefully over the rim of his cup. “I heard he’s actually been out for over a month already. He hasn’t been to see the king, though. Or anyone.”

“By ‘king’ do you mean Finarfin or Turgon?” Ecthelion asks, almost absently. Glorfindel shrugs.

“Either of them. Neither of them.”

“Where is he now?” Ecthelion asks. His hands carefully don’t shake as he sets down his knight, holding Glorfindel’s king in check.

“I heard that the Lady Aredhel has taken him to Oromë’s woods.” Glorfindel responds. “I don’t believe she’s received any visitors, however. From what Eärendil told me, she refused to receive even Turgon into their home.”

“Can you blame her?” Ecthelion asks. Glorfindel sighs. His hair is shorn short these days. Though they now dwelled in safety in Aman, he would never again wear his hair long enough to be caught in a Balrog’s burning grasp.

“Will you go to him?” Glorfindel asks. Ecthelion takes a sip of tea, sets it down.

“I will.”

\---

The woods are quiet. Not silent or dark enough to resemble Nan Elmoth, but Maeglin finds them unsettling, all the same. Nevertheless, there’s an undercurrent of comfort here, too. He breathes the air in deeply, lets it out.

He’d missed the forest more than he cared to admit, while in the marble prison of Gondolin.

Above him, the wind stirs the trees. It’s cold, but Maeglin has never minded the cold, or the dark. He stands in the middle of a rushing stream, his trousers rolled up to his knees. He could stand here, he thinks, for a century. Maybe more. In the quiet of the trees, even his wandering thoughts go still and soft. He imagines himself raising his hands and letting them go like the fireflies he used to catch in his childhood. His mother had never let him keep their light for himself, no matter how beautiful they were. No matter how much he wanted them. Watching her in her white dress, the only radiant thing among Eol’s possessions, he understood why, so he always obeyed.

He’d likened Idril to fireflies, once. All that golden light that was never meant for him. But in Mandos, and up till now, his thoughts stray to silver, the lilting music of a flute. The flash of white crystals like stars. A calm smile.

He draws his hands back, closes his eyes. _Not for you._ He reminds himself. _Never for you. Not anymore, if ever you did have him, once._ His mother’s voice interrupts his thoughts.

“Lómion.” His mother calls out to him. He opens his eyes to see her on the opposite bank. There’s a strange look on her face. “There’s someone here to see you.” He looks away, back up at the sky.

“Is it the king?” he asks. King Turgon’s the only one who’s tried to visit him, these past months. His mother had turned him away each and every time. She had some very choice words for him, during his first attempt. Still, that hasn’t deterred him, and Maeglin had taken to slipping away into the forest whenever he stopped to call.

He’s already a turncloak. He might as well be called a coward. Hiding, like the mole he had chosen as his coat-of-arms. He has never belonged to the sunlight, anyway. His only hope is to be allowed to fade into the shadows, forgotten and allowed whatever peace he can eke out of his existence.

“No, it isn’t.” She hesitates. Before she can speak, she’s interrupted.

“It’s me.” A familiar voice rings out, calm and sure, and Maeglin nearly sprains his neck with how fast he turns to find a familiar figure in silver on the opposite bank of the stream.

“I didn’t give you leave to enter.” His mother tells the Lord of the Fountain with a scowl. Ecthelion bows to her.

“Forgive me, my Lady. I know your son. He’s used to turning me away from his door. I cannot wait another century to speak to him, now that he’s back.” Aredhel blinks – neither she not Maeglin have ever seen him act so _rudely –_ and Maeglin flinches, but forces himself to relax. _You deserve worse._ He reminds himself. He deserves all the recriminations Ecthelion would rain down on him.

Ecthelion is staring at him with an odd light in his eyes. Maeglin has to look away, to keep himself from drinking him in. The last time Maeglin had seen Lord Ecthelion, he’d been a drowned corpse in the Fountain of the King. Maeglin had recognized the bloodied flash of silver and diamonds as he dragged Idril and her son up the walls of Gondolin, and the horror of even that had been stifled by the sheer, crushing despair that had been suffocating Maeglin ever since he was forced into Morgoth’s service. After Tuor had put him out of his misery it had been decades before he could gather the shreds of himself enough to truly grieve.

Now he’s alive before Maeglin once more, heavy with the shadow of Mandos. Maeglin finds himself taking an involuntary step back, almost tripping in the stream.

“I will leave you to speak.” Aredhel says abruptly, turning away.

“… Mother.” Maeglin says, a little helplessly. His mother just gives him a pointed look, then disappears in a flash of white skirts inside their manor, leaving the two of them alone. Maeglin chances a glance up, a knot of thorns in his throat, and makes the mistake of meeting Ecthelion’s gaze. Ecthelion’s practically glaring at him, the corners of his eyes reddened, and all of a sudden, Maeglin feels very, very small.

“Why have you come to see the traitor?” He finally manages to ask. He expects to be struck with a fist, for poisoned words to fall like sharp rocks in his ears. He does not expect Ecthelion to splash into the stream after him – no regard at all for his silver robes – and _yank_ him forwards, almost knocking the two of them off-balance into the water. Neither does he expect strong arms to keep him up, warm lips on his in a hard kiss.

“I’m sorry.” Ecthelion gasps against his mouth, once they separate for air, Maeglin staring at him in disbelief. “It’s been so long, too long, I-“ He kisses Maeglin again, and Maeglin tastes his tears. 

Maeglin hears a keening cry, realizes it’s a laugh, that it’s coming from him. Ecthelion’s usually-calm features are twisted in both grief and joy. He kisses him again, and Maeglin feels the fire of it in his chest.

“You’re shivering.” Ecthelion says hoarsely. He’s holding Maeglin’s face between his hands. “Let’s get out of the water. Come on.” He tugs on Maeglin, and Maeglin almost stumbles after him. He thinks wildly, for a moment, of darting into the woods and away. But Ecthelion’s grip on his hand tightens and at the glare in his eyes, Maeglin loses his nerve. There’s no escaping this.

Draped over the low-hanging branches of a tree growing by the streambank are dry clothes – two sets of them, along with a blanket. Maeglin pauses for a moment, wondering if his mother had seen that display on the riverbank, but Ecthelion’s stripping off his soaked robes without a care for shame or propriety, and it is so unlike the proper, eternally calm Lord of the Fountain that Maeglin knew back in Gondolin that he has to remind himself to avert his gaze, his cheeks turning red. He starts stripping his wet clothes off with numb fingers, the hollowly familiar ache of longing burning in his gut, and out of sheer force of habit he pushes it down. Remembers the many times he’d done so in Idril’s presence, and Ecthelion’s.

Ecthelion reaches for Maeglin almost as soon as he’s finished dressing, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders and holding him close. “I’ve wanted to do that since Gondolin.” He admits, his chin on the top of Maeglin’s head. “I regretted not doing so. I thought that maybe…” He falls silent. 

“Nothing you could have done would have saved me – or Gondolin – from Morgoth.” Maeglin says. And suddenly all of the fire feels drained out of him, and all he feels is hollow. He pushes away from Ecthelion.

“What are you doing here, Ecthelion?” He says. The words sound dead in his ears. He _feels_ dead, like he was a wraith haunting Mandos’ halls all over again. Ecthelion’s gaze flickers. A furrow creases his forehead. Maeglin glances away.

“You’ve seen me. You’ve taken what you wanted.” Maeglin says. Ecthelion tilts his face up, but he refuses to meet his gaze. “What else do you want?”

“Please.” Ecthelion breathes out. He takes Maeglin’s hand, presses his cold fingers against his lips. They warm under Ecthelion’s touch. “Don’t.” His voice cracks. “I did not wait millennia for your return to be driven away now.” Maeglin swallows past the painful lump in his throat. This time, he kisses Ecthelion first. His hands shake as he pushes Ecthelion down into the dirt and straddles his hips. Ecthelion surges forwards, hands warm and heavy on Maeglin’s thighs, his length.

They lose themselves in each other till dawn.

\---

It was fascination that drew Ecthelion to the boy, at first. Aredhel’s son looked nothing like her, but also resembled his mother in so many ways. Perhaps the guilt also had a hand in drawing him close – it was his and Egalmoth’s fault that she had been mazed in Eol’s dark lands in the first place. Equally his fault that she had fallen at her husband’s hand.

Ecthelion failed to protect Aredhel. He promised himself he would never fail to protect her son.

“You did, anyway.” Maeglin’s voice is soft, and holds no blame. “And it wasn’t your fault.” Ecthelion’s grip around his waist tightens. Maeglin’s eyes are wide and dark as he watches Arien spread the sun’s red glow over the treetops. There are dark bruises on his hips from Ecthelion’s fingers and kisses. Ecthelion’s back burns with scratches. Maeglin had held onto him last night like he didn’t know whether to hold him close or rip him apart. 

“It _was_ my fault.” Ecthelion murmurs against his hair. “I should have known something was wrong. You were so changed. I was worried I would make matters worse, if I forced it out of you.” He remembers Maeglin’s black, black eyes, lightless despite his courteous smile. He had started keeping his distance from Gondolin’s court after Idril’s wedding, and all of them had assumed it was because of jealousy. And then Maeglin had returned, but there was an impenetrable wall between the two of them, and the person beyond it would not let him in.

“And then Idril told you and her other allies to oversee her Hidden Way as it was being built. So you couldn’t afford to let me be in your confidence again.” Maeglin says. This time, he turns to face Ecthelion. “I’m glad you didn’t. I would have destroyed you all, if you had told me about it.” Ecthelion wraps his arms tighter around Maeglin. Maeglin touches his cheek lightly.

“I destroyed you first.” Ecthelion kisses his palm. He remembers the boy, white-lipped and hollow-eyed as he watched his uncle execute his father. That same boy, growing up in his uncle’s court, the watchful wariness never leaving him. Learning the poisoned games and intrigues of Gondolin’s court.

Ecthelion had reached out to him, numerous times. Made overtures of friendship. And though Maeglin had accepted it, after a while, it was never without him holding affection and trust at arm’s length. And then the Nirnaeth Arnoediad had happened. After the day of that terrible battle, Ecthelion had found Maeglin retching his guts out a good distance away from their encampment, ensuring no one could see him. He’d been hollow-eyed as he’d stared up at Ecthelion offering him his waterskin to rinse the taste of vomit out of his mouth. Then Maeglin had started, violently, pushing Ecthelion away, shame flooding his cheeks, but Ecthelion had forced the waterskin into his hand and sternly told him to drink. He’d stayed by Maeglin’s side as the boy sat numb and shivering, the few words he managed to dredge up from his lips full of horror.

Afterwards, Maeglin knew to go to him when the nightmares got to be too much, or the memories too real. And though he never spoke much of what troubled him, usually distracting himself with speaking about the House of the Mole’s latest projects, or whatever intrigue was raging between the Houses, Ecthelion had found himself looking forward to Maeglin’s visits. He enjoyed being the one to tease out a smile from Maeglin’s grim features, and to watch his spine relax the more he felt at ease. He loved seeing that flash of warmth in the boy’s eyes that no one – not even idril Celebrindal – was able to coax out. He loved him, Ecthelion had realized after Maeglin’s first disappearance. And it was then that Maeglin had stopped coming to him.

Ecthelion had thought what he had been giving Maeglin was enough. Morgoth had proved him so, so wrong. It’s not a mistake he cares to make, ever again.

He cannot imagine what it would have been like to face Morgoth and feel so utterly alone.

He doesn’t say _I am here now, safe and whole._ Neither does he say _that’s in the past, and we have made peace with it as best as we may._ They’re hollow words for a boy who has always lived in the shadows of grief and regret. Instead, he tucks Maeglin to him.

“I looked for you everywhere, in Mandos.” Ecthelion says. “Drove Glorfindel mad with my wandering. Try as I might, I couldn’t find you.” His voice breaks. When Ecthelion tilts his face up, Maeglin does not look at him.

“When you’re ashamed,” Ecthelion continues. “You can never look at someone you love straight in the eye. You couldn’t look at Idril – or me. Or Turgon – straight in the eye after Morgoth forced that deal out of you.” His voice is tender. So are his hands, his arms as he folds Maeglin close to him. “What are you ashamed of now?” Maeglin does not answer. He just closes his eyes.

“I’m sorry.” He says at last. “For everything. For betraying Gondolin. Betraying King Turgon. Hurting Eärendil, and Idril. For getting you killed.” The words are raw. Broken. Maeglin still cannot look at him. Ecthelion brushes his hair out of his face.

“I’m sorry for not realizing how badly you were hurt by Morgoth.” Ecthelion says. At that, Maeglin lifts his gaze. “I’m sorry for not breaking Turgon’s jaw for making you watch him execute your father. I’m sorry for not saving your mother when your father killed her.” He takes Maeglin’s hand. “But I can’t be sorry for losing her in Nan Elmoth.” Ecthelion’s smile is wry as Maeglin stares at him. “Not when that mistake brought me _you._ And I’m certain Aredhel, Turgon, and all the other people who love you would say the same thing, if you would let them speak to you. Eärendil’s been asking after you, have you heard? He doesn’t want to intrude, but he remembers you as a beloved uncle more than anything else.”

Maeglin snorts, but his eyes are wet. “That little brat.” He says. “I never could get a moment of work done with him around.” His smile fades. “Morgoth made me watch what the orcs would do to captive children. I thought throwing him to his death would be a more merciful than what awaited him.” He’s quiet, as Ecthelion twines their fingers together.

“I always wanted to tell him how sorry I was.” Ecthelion gives his fingers a squeeze.

“Tell him so yourself. When you’re ready.” Maeglin tucks his face under his chin, and Ecthelion holds him.

\---

“Turgon is here.” Aredhel says, one quiet morning after they’d broken their fast. “Eärendil is with him.” She’s looking at Maeglin. Maeglin reaches under the table, grasps his husband’s hand.

“Should I send them away?” Aredhel asks. Maeglin feels Ecthelion stroke the back of his hand. He is silent for a moment.

 _This is yours._ He reminds himself. _This is yours, and to let it continue being yours, you need to find your peace where you can._ Maeglin squeezes his husband’s hand, looks at his mother full in the face.

“No.” He says softly. “Let them in.” He draws strength from his husband’s smile, from the love on his mother’s face, as he straightens his back and makes peace with his past.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for toastedbuckwheat. :D Thanks for your donation, dear girl, I hope you're satisfied with this fic. <3


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